


Before the Game

by FireFaceOutlook



Series: The Game [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, vigilante!Jackie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFaceOutlook/pseuds/FireFaceOutlook
Summary: A gunshot rang out, breaking the usual nighttime cacophony of car engines and TVs muted by windows.  Henrik wouldn't have been so on edge – unfortunately, it wasn't anunusualsound to hear so late in the day – if it weren't for the volume and, subsequently, proximity of the noise.  Out of the shadows about five feet from his frozen body stumbled a man with greasy hair and an altogether shady look.  He barely spared the doctor a glance as he bolted in the opposite direction, perhaps being a first time offender, and Schneeplestein didn't even wait for the assailant to disappear into the night before sprinting forward and locating the alley the man came from.





	Before the Game

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: I, uh... I've been working on this for a while. Like, a _while_. I wanted to show how they met, and a few commentators of Aftermath of the Game thought it'd be cool, so here it is. I think it turned out okay,, and I think the next part of this series will focus on Anti's role in Jackie's vigilante life.**   
>  **Also, I shouldn't have to say this, but I will just in case: take my "medical expertise" with a grain of salt. Otherwise, enjoy!**   
>  **Edit: Shh, the version of this with a rushed ending never existed.**

The city's streetlights had long flickered on by the time Henrik von Schneeplestein was freed from his hospital shift. It was nearly one in the morning when he began the arduous trek back to his apartment. Buses stopped running at eleven and cab fares increased ridiculously after midnight – he didn't own a car because his apartment building lacked a parking lot and there were no nearby parking garages – so he didn't have much of a choice as to methods of arriving home. If he could make it without being mugged or murdered, he'd have a _whole week_ away from work – barring emergencies.

As he walked, accompanied only by the clothes on his back, the apartment key in his pocket, and the dirt cheap (and dirt-flavored) coffee in his hand, he thought back to his day of work and evaluated the severe lack of luck on his side. It actually began rather slowly. He woke from an hour-long nap on the “break room” couch and rolled right into his seventeenth hour straight in the hospital on-duty. The whole day was spent catering to people in the ER, checking in on patients recovering from surgeries (there was a particularly kind man there by the name of Mark), and he even got to take a full lunch break instead of shoving a granola bar and three mugs of coffee down his throat. He was actually feeling pretty good, despite the sleep deprivation – the end of his shift was approaching and he was looking forward to his time off. Then an emergency was called in: a young man was being rushed to the hospital with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the head. He was barely holding on.

It was the most difficult operation Schneeplestein had ever performed. It didn't help that the patient – Chase Brody – somehow kept regaining consciousness. It was only in several-seconds-long snatches, yet they each nearly made the doctor falter. Chase would beg for someone not to leave him, he would incoherently sob out names, and he even pleaded for death. Of course, Schneeplestein persevered until his patient was safely away from Death's scythe, but he couldn't help but wonder if it was really within his rights to steal from Chase the end he desired so desperately that he pulled the trigger on himself. But if he wanted to keep his job, he couldn't take a patient's personal desires about living into consideration. He just hoped that Chase would see his survival as something positive and make the most of his life now that he came close to tumbling over the edge. 

A gunshot rang out, breaking the usual nighttime cacophony of car engines and TVs muted by windows. Henrik wouldn't have been so on edge – unfortunately, it wasn't an _unusual_ sound to hear so late in the day – if it weren't for the volume and, subsequently, proximity of the noise. Out of the shadows about five feet from his frozen body stumbled a man with greasy hair and an altogether shady look. He barely spared the doctor a glance as he bolted in the opposite direction, perhaps being a first time offender, and Schneeplestein didn't even wait for the assailant to disappear into the night before sprinting forward and locating the alley the man came from.

Sprawled on the ground, unconscious, was the victim, half hidden behind a dumpster and only visible in the dark because of the white shirt he was wearing. He also had on black slacks, sneakers, and there was a well-worn school bag against the wall nearby, its contents scattered around it.

“ _Scheisse_!” Schneeplestein hissed, spotting a rapidly growing stain of red around the man's left shoulder. He shook off his coat, bundling it up and pressing it against the wound with one hand while using the other to check for a pulse. He found one, slow but strong, and briefly contemplated his options. He didn't have a phone* and his place was much closer than the hospital. He undid his belt, pulling it from his pants loops, and dropped his coat to the side, tying the belt tight around the man's shoulder as a temporary tourniquet. The victim groaned in pain, but didn't wake.

Henrik collected the items spilled from the school bag, tossing the strap over his shoulder, and lifted the man from the ground. If he wasn't so used to helping lift dead weight at the hospital, he definitely wouldn't have been able to drag the man anywhere. As it was, he found himself exhausted by the time he reached his apartment. It was rundown and dirty on the outside, graffiti running around the bottom of the walls, but it was warm and secure inside, and no one asked questions, even when the man who kept to himself and had odd hours came back dragging a bleeding and unconscious man up the stairs. His room was on the third floor, and there was no elevator, so all he wanted to do when he finally unlocked his door was collapse on his bed and sleep forever, but he had a patient to tend to.

He flipped on the lights and dropped the man onto his couch, adjusting him and checking for an exit wound from the bullet – which he should've done back in the alley – but there wasn't any. That meant the bullet was still in him. He ran to the bathroom for his medical supplies. Being a doctor, he had a better-stocked First Aid kit than most people. He brought it out to the living area, settling next to the couch as he opened it and equipped himself with gloves. He pulled off the blood-stained shirt, took out tweezers and a penlight, and got to work. This wasn't the first shooting victim he ever worked on, though he was usually cutting them open to get the bullet out. He didn't have the luxury of scalpels at home, though, so he did the best he could with what he had. It took a few tense minutes, but he finally pulled it out. He threaded a needle and stitched up the wound, sitting back to peel off his bloody gloves. He untied the belt-tourniquet, used a few disinfectant wipes to clean the blood from around the stitches, then packed everything back into the First Aid kit, shoving it under the couch for later. He checked the man's pulse again, finding it still strong, which meant that the man was probably not in danger of going into shock. Still, he decided to stay in the living room, just in case anything happened, curling up in his reading chair in the corner of the room and promptly passing out. 

  


The next morning, Henrik woke with a headache pounding behind his eyes and a cramp in his neck. The cramp was probably less from sleeping in a chair, which he did more often than he'd like to admit, and more from the strap of the bag he still had hanging off of him. He tugged it free and dropped it beside his chair, then got to his feet. His patient was still very much asleep, so he decided to save checking on him for _after_ he was more awake and less in a half-conscious daze.

Henrik's at-home morning routine was simple and pretty efficient in waking him up. He took a shower – a couple minutes under an icy cold spray to _really_ get him aware of his surroundings, then about five minutes in heated water to clean himself up. Then he'd dry off as he went to his room, dress in the most comfortable clothes he owned – a threadbare shirt that was a size too big and a pair of grey sweatpants that were a little too long –, and head to the kitchen for coffee. He swallowed down the scalding liquid as soon as he had a mugful, sighing happily as the last of his sleepy haze dissipated. He set the cup aside as he returned to the living room, approaching the prone figure on the couch. He crouched to pull the First Aid kit back out, then leaned in to double check the stitch-work. At that moment, the man chose to wake, gasping sharply and sitting up so abruptly that his shoulder slammed into Schneeplestein's nose.

“ _Sohn einer Hündin_!” Henrik cried as he recoiled, eyes watering. He clutched his face, running his fingers down the bridge of his nose and, after confirming no broken bones, pinched it, leaning his head forward and letting the blood drip onto the palm of his free hand.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” The victim-turned-assailant reached for him, but halted abruptly, clutching his injury.

“Don't do that!” Henrik snapped, pulling the man's hand away with his own blood-free one. “ _Verdammt noch mal_ … Do you want it to get infected?”

“Sor- sorry.” They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other – well, it was more of a glare on the German's part. “Um... Who are you?”

“You can call me Dr. Schneeplestein. Who are _you_?” Maybe his mannerism towards his patient was lacking in patience, but he was pretty sure that by midday, his face would be one giant bruise.

“My name's Jackie.” The brunet's eyes drifted across the room and landed on the chair that Schneeplestein had slept on. “Is that my bag?”

“Oh, yeah.” The doctor had forgotten that it was there. He dragged it off the chair and dropped it onto Jackie's lap. “You stay here. And _don't_ touch your shoulder.”

He got to his feet, stepping over the First Aid kit, and made his way to the bathroom. He washed his hands and face; his left nostril was still leaking, so he rolled up some toilet paper and stuffed it in. When he finished, he wet a washclothe and brought it out to see Jackie on his phone. He really hoped that he wasn't about to be visited by the police for “kidnapping.”

“Yeah, I got shot, but I'm fine, I promise. This doctor guy – Schneep-something – found me and patched me up.”

“Schneeplestein,” Henrik sighed, only getting a grin in response from Jackie. He rounded the side of the couch and offered the washclothe.

“I'll call you tomorrow, okay?” He hung up after a moment, dropping his phone back into his bag, and accepted the washclothe with a confused frown. Henrik gestured to his shoulder, and when Jackie turned his head, he saw there was blood dripping from the stitches. He pressed the clothe to the wound and watched the doctor as he returned to the armchair.

“Who was that you were talking to?” Henrik asked.

“Oh, my cousin, Anti.” When he got a skeptically raised brow, Jackie chuckled. “Nickname. He lives a while away – calls in to make sure I haven't gotten myself killed doing something stupid.”

Schneeplestein narrowed his eyes at this. “'Something stupid',” he repeated slowly. “Like being shot?”

Jackie grimaced, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “It wasn't exactly part of my nightly routine,” he muttered. “The guy was harassing a friend of mine, so I stepped in. It... might've gotten a little out of hand.”

“ _'A little'_?” Henrik dragged a hand down his face, immediately regretting it when he touched his nose thoughtlessly. “ _Was zur Hölle..._ Is this _typical_ for you? How are you even still alive?”

Jackie offered a crooked grin. “This time? Thanks to you. You're a real life-saver, doc.”

Henrik gaped at him, then scoffed, looking away to hide how flattered he was by the gratitude. It was the one thing he never got used to since becoming a doctor: people being thankful towards him. It didn't help that he was graceless when it came to accepting compliments in general. “Yeah, well, if you're really grateful, you won't get into any more trouble like this.”

“Don't get shot again? I can certainly try!” Jackie laughed.

Henrik ended up letting him stay another night, and after checking his stitches again, gave him a date to get them checked and possibly removed at an actual _hospital_ , then sent him on his way.

  


About a month passed and Henrik forgot about his short-lived guest in the whirlwind of tasks he had to perform for his job. He was once again on Emergency Room duty when the reminder struck him upon seeing a familiar face – dirt and blood smeared across it, as well as a red-soaked bundle of fabric pressed pressed against his temple – seated amongst the other patients dwelling in the waiting room. Henrik almost wanted to turn and swap shifts with a co-worker, but their eyes met and Jackie grinned and Schneeplestein knew it was too late. A quick glance through the list of the people waiting revealed that Jackie's injuries were probably more of an urgent case than the others, so Henrik called for him to come back. Once he had Jackie seated, he pulled on gloves and mentally braced himself.

“I thought you weren't going to make a habit of this,” he scolded as he pried Jackie's hand and the bloody clothe away from his head.

“I wasn't _shot_ ,” Jackie pointed out somewhat cheekily, wincing under the doctor's probing fingers. “It was for a good cause!”

“Oh yeah?”

The injured man tried to nod, but Schneeplestein gripped his jaw with his clean-gloved hand until he stopped trying to move.

“ _Yesh_ ,” he slurred out from between squished cheeks. Once released, he continued, “A couple jerks were tormenting a stray cat! They were hurting it and when I stepped in, they attacked me, too. I defended myself (and the cat), but one of them was wearing rings and got a good hit in. Though, they ran when they saw I was bleeding.” He pouted slightly. “The cat was gone by then, too.”

Henrik tsked, finding his penlight and shining it in Jackie's eyes. “You'll be fine,” he concluded after a moment. “You're alert, too; that's good. I'm going to bandage your head, so try not to do anything to worsen your injury, okay?”

“Sure thing, doc.”

  


There were a few more incidents of similar caliber – during each one, whether he asked or not, Schneeplestein learned more about Jackie and the kind of person he was –, but finding Jackie sprawled in the gutter on his way back from a “mandatory” dinner with his colleagues was the last straw.

“Your ability to attract trouble knows no bounds, _unruhestifter_ ,” Henrik sighed as he hauled the barely conscious college student to his feet, eliciting no struggle despite the bleary squint on Jackie's face.

“Schneep...?” he croaked, sounding a little worse for wear and looking roughed up, but not nearly as bad as usual. Though, he was a bit spacey compared to other times. 

_Possible concussion,_ Henrik decided wryly (not concerned, no, not at all) as they stumble down the street towards his apartment. Obviously Jackie wasn't well-versed in taking care of himself, so he needed someone to do it for him. _I suppose I'm qualified enough for that,_ he thought in a faux put-upon manner. _I'll offer it when he can think straight again._

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: *He has a pager so he can be called in for emergencies; he pretty much has no social life, so he has no need for a phone. Yet.**   
>  **_Scheisse_ – shit**   
>  **_Sohn einer Hündin_ – son of a bitch**   
>  **_Verdammt noch mal_ – for fuck's sake**   
>  **_Was zur Hölle?_ – what the hell?**   
>  **_Unruhestifter_ \- troublemaker**


End file.
